


in the liminal space between the swings and the green spring riders

by spacepuck



Series: The Under [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Domestic, M/M, Multiverse, Parallel Universes, Post-Sburb, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-28 21:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11426661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacepuck/pseuds/spacepuck
Summary: “Are you, like, trying to find these guys?” you ask. “Were you hoping that me and Dave were them?”“Oh, somewhat. For both questions,” the witch says. “You see, Heir and Knight ran off together a long, long time ago. It’s clear that they’re still around somewhere, but…we have no idea where they are.”“I mean, you guys can kind of see everything, right? It doesn’t seem like it would take you a long time to check the entire world for them.”“John, I don’t think you quite understand,” the seer says. “All of us—Witch, Heir, Knight, and myself—aregods. In our universe, we aren’t confined to just one world, or planet. We have the power to travel anywhere we please. Including, it seems, though very limited, other universes.”





	in the liminal space between the swings and the green spring riders

**Author's Note:**

> (this will probably be easier to understand if you read the first part of this series: [let's sit on the couch and do nothing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7978828).)

When you suddenly find yourself sitting up pin-straight in bed, facing nothing but the darkness of your bedroom and the blankets kicked off your legs, you expect to feel the rush of panic flood your chest and numb your arms. And, in a way, you wish that that’s what you were feeling—not because it’s pleasant or fun, but because you can tell yourself it was “just another nightmare” and get yourself back to sleep before dwelling on the thought for too long.

This time, though, you feel nothing. No panic, no pulse tapping hard under your jaw, nothing. All you can feel is the cold, harsh breeze coming through the window (that, you admit, really shouldn’t be open in early November, but you like the fresh air). It hits your bare legs. You even think you hear a voice in it

_ I̕҉t̷͢'͘͘s̨͘ ҉y̴̨o̧̢̕u͡... _

but you shake it off as a lingering dream murmur. 

Your dream had been simple: a strange pseudo-memory of your dad as he baked a cake that multiplied in height whenever he pulled the piping bag away from the frosting. You watched him from the stairs. You remember hoping that he wouldn’t find you there, despite being in plain sight, because you don’t like cake much anymore. And because dream you just wouldn’t get any closer on his own terms.

It was when your dad turned away to puff at his pipe that you heard a voice separate from yours and his drift over from an undistinguished somewhere. You can’t remember if your dream-self reacted to it at all—it felt above your dream, more like a god overlooking your deep subconscious—but at the very least, it made you wake up. Even now, as you sit awake in the dark, you find yourself still hearing the voice, not so much lingering as before, but now floating close to you, practically up against your skin, before being whisked away. 

_ It͠'s͘͟ ̢̛y̧̕oų,̨͏ ͝i̷͘s͜n̶'͝͝t͘͢ ̢̛͞i̧t̡͟͠?̴̡͜ _

You can’t even comprehend the things you hear as words, not in any language that you’ve ever heard. Stranger still, you feel as though you understand it on some subconscious level, even if you can’t translate it. Sort of like those foreign phrases that are just too unique to the language to translate at all. 

_ Y̵̸o͘͝u̸͠ mų͟s͘̕t̡҉͟ ͏̴̛g̷o̶̧̢.̵͘ _

The closest you can get to English is a soft, yet urgent, _“go”_. 

And who are you to ignore strange dream voices? Besides, the room is starting to feel suffocating—maybe a walk could do you some good.

When you slink out of bed, you pull on the jeans and socks you left lying on the floor the night before. You pat your hands softly in the dark to find your jacket on the chair in the corner, your sneakers halfway under the bed. You feel some amount of pride that Dave hasn’t stirred awake from your moving around—he’s such a stupidly light sleeper, sometimes you worry your thoughts will wake him up. 

Unfortunately, you find your pride short-lived as you less-than-gingerly pick up your keys from the top of the dresser, and you hear Dave inhale slow and sharp from the bed. 

“Hm?” 

He mumbles a little before opening his eyes and shifting, moving up to lean on his elbows. You see his knee jerk under the sheets when his eyes land on you, and see him reach for something. In retrospect, you probably shouldn’t have just stood there as a big looming shadow in the room, but you forgive him for chucking a book in your direction. 

“Ouch,” you hiss. 

“Jesus Christ, John? What are you doing?”

You rub your arm where the book had hit you, shrugging. 

“Uh, I’m just craving a slurpee from 7-Eleven. Do you want one?”

“What? Dude, it’s like…” 

The clock on his bedside table shifts as he turns it towards him. 

“It’s like 5am,” he finishes. 

“Yeah, so? The slurpee was calling me from my dream. I can’t just ignore that, you know. What if it’s a sign?”

He groans, and the bed creaks as he drops himself back down on it.

“Can’t your sign wait until the morning?”

“Uh, hm, no, I think I need it right now.”

“John, don’t take this as me being too forward, but are you pregnant?”

“If I was, would you let me get my slurpee?” 

He sighs, turning on his side—the sign of giving up. You pocket your keys and head for the bedroom door. 

“I’ll be back soon, promise. You want the cherry one?” 

Through a yawn, he responds, “Whatever. Just be safe.”

You nod, saying you will, and you quietly head out of the apartment. 

It was rare that you ever got to see the neighborhood, or really much of the world, at five in the morning. You remember being a teenager living near Seattle and waking up before the sun rose for school, or your dad waking you just as the sky started to turn pink. Though as a kid you couldn’t really appreciate what came with nautical twilight, you feel at some peace knowing that the state hasn’t quite woken up yet, and that you are among a small percentage of those stirring. The wind whips at your cheeks and curls around your ears, something you’ve always found to be a special kind of silence despite the cool burn. 

You walk for some time without much conscious aim. Really, you feel as though you’re letting the winds direct you, as though you’re a little boat travelling reckless and free, only hoping that they’ll bring you back to shore. Well, even though you _are_ on shore. It’s too early for you to think up an analogy for what the shore really _is_ , so you stuff your hands further in your pockets and end the thought there.

The route is at least familiar. You and Dave liked to walk slow down the sidewalks in the summer and autumn, and you always reached a hand out to drum your fingers over the park’s fencing when you neared it. Dave would sometimes do the same with a small stick, seeming to think nothing of doing it, but it was one of those moments that you would get a glimpse of a boy you hadn’t known and never met. 

Now, the fence is hard to see, but in a daze you reach out for it anyway. The noise is clunky and cold under your fingertips. You walk for a short while, or maybe a long while, listening to the _thud thud_ drumming of the steel bars, until the noise suddenly stops and your hand touches nothing but wind.

When you look to see why the fence had ended, you notice a small, darkened nook where the trees have formed a canopy over a swingset and a group of spring riders. The wind knocks the swings back and forth slowly; you notice, of the four swings, two of them have been wrapped around the bar and made totally inaccessible to anyone under seven feet tall. 

You step into the area despite never having seen it before. How far had you walked? Are you on the opposite side of the park? The woodchips shift under your sneakers as you step over to one of the swings. When you sit, you hold onto the chains. 

From inside the playground, you can’t tell if the darkest part of dusk has passed. Had the sky started turning blue? You can’t tell. Even looking out the way you had come in, the tree branches hang low and the wind whips the branches and remaining leaves too much to get a long glimpse at the sky. 

So, you sit and stare at the spring riders. They’re difficult to make out in the relative darkness, but you like to imagine that they’re green. 

As the wind rustles the trees and the low bushes, you can feel the sting against the back of your neck. It hits the shell of your ear a little stronger than before

_ Se̵e͠r,̴ h͠e is̛ h̶ere̸.̛ _

and makes your hands ache against the chainlink. And yet you remain there, feeling as though you’re waiting for something. Or, maybe even someone. 

For a while, all there is to focus on is the wind, the trees, and the soft rusty squeak of old playground equipment being disturbed. Once or twice, though, out of the corner of your eye you spot a flicker of violet in the bushes, but when you turn to look, the color 

_ Se̢e̕r,̡ are ͝yo͢u҉ ok̕ay?͝ _

is gone. 

You press your heels against the ground to sway on the swing. The woodchips shift under your toes. 

For a while, nothing changes. The wind continues to blow strong against your shoulders, the leaves rustle, the chains and springs creak. The moments of violet have vanished from your peripherals.

What are you doing here? You should be getting a slurpee right now. Hell, you should be _in bed_ right now. 

You wait for a moment longer, just to see if anything will happen, before standing up from the swing. It’s then that the winds suddenly become harsh, and you pause midstep to look up at the trees. Dead leaves fall on your hair and shoulders, and with them comes a voice, distant and urgent.

“Wait!”

The darkness almost seems to move in the edges of the playground. You wait, but you hold your breath. 

“Heir—John, please wait!”

“I’m—” Your voice sounds strange against the wind. You can hardly tell if you’re speaking at all. “I’m not leaving!”

The short bursts of violet reappear, and again, when you try to find them, they disappear again. They hide in the bushes, behind the tree trunks. They blink in and out of sight. 

The wind is loud and yet you don’t feel cold.

“What’s going on?” you ask, trying to find your voice above the noise. “Who are you?”

“I’m—oh, for crying out loud.”

The wind settles slightly, and the voice starts again. The violet bursts reappear again in the darkness.

“Seer” the voice says, and the darkness warps around her voice, “are you okay?”

The violet lingers longer than before. They blink. 

“I’m fine, Witch,” the seer responds. “It’s incredibly difficult to remain here, though.”

“Gosh, I know! But I think we’ll be okay—”

“We cannot stay here for long. Please, sit again.” 

This seems to be directed at you. Slowly, you retreat back to the swingset, and as you sit, the violet appears in your direct line of vision. It’s then that you realize they are eyes.

Violet eyes. A sharp shiver runs down your spine as you think of that strange night last summer, when the air conditioner clackered too loud and Dave disappeared into an alternate somewhere underneath your bathroom sink. 

“It was dark,” he had told you, some days after his return from what he called the Under, “and there were eyes.” 

“Eyes?” you asked.

“Big. Violet. Went on up for fuckin’ miles.”

He had gestured a large dome with his hands, and then had gone quiet. 

“What’s going on?” you ask, gripping the chainlink tight as the eyes blink. “What am I doing here?”

“Well, you came here of your own volition,” the seer says, “but I assume you heard me in your dream.” 

“My dream?”

“Yes. I saw your father.” 

“How do you know—”

“Please, we don’t have much time. We cannot stay in this realm for very long. It’s incredibly strenuous on both of us to be here at all.” 

You stare hard at the eyes, feeling your front teeth dig into your bottom lip. When they blink, they disappear for a long moment before returning. The trees shake as the witch speaks. 

“We’ve seen you, John! Well, _Seer_ has seen you, but I’ve sometimes felt you roaming with the wind. I was trying to speak to you through it, but I don’t know if you heard me.”

“You were the voice,” you say. You’re unsure of where to land your eyes. “Why are you watching me? Who _are_ you?”

“We were watching you,” the seer says, slow and careful, “because you remind us of a very old friend of ours. We find it very peculiar.”

“How did you find me?” you ask. The eyes blink.

“We met your friend a short while ago. He had mentioned you—you helped him leave the under, correct?”

You feel your hands grip the swingset chains tighter.

“So it is you,” you say. “Dave told me about you.”

“Really?” The trees rustle above your head. “That was quick!”

“Uh. It happened months ago,” you say. Underneath the rustling of leaves, you think you can hear laughter.

“Well, quick for _us_ , at least.”

“The reason why we are contacting you is because we have formed a hypothesis, and we are simply curious to see if it is true,” the seer says. 

“But, why are you asking me? Dave is still home, why didn’t you—”

“Time is far more difficult for Witch to manipulate than tangible elements. In fact, she cannot manipulate time at all.” 

“I can barely manipulate the wind,” the witch mutters. “It’s less manipulating wind and more manipulating all the space around it, anyway.”

“I don’t understand,” you say. “Why can you reach me but not him?”

“Well, I’m the Witch of Space! I’m able to manipulate things in relation to other things, like making things larger or small, or making things move.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It’s not, really!”

“But, I still don’t understand. Why can’t you reach Dave? What does needing to mess around with time have to do with it?”

There is a short bout of silence among the two. One of them seems to hum in thought, but it comes warbled across the playground. 

“To put this bluntly, we suspect your friend may be a time traveler of sorts.” 

Suddenly, you feel yourself sit up straight. 

“A _what?_ ” 

“Seer, I think that might have been _too_ blunt—”

“Dave’s a _time traveler?_ ” you ask.

“Of sorts,” the seer emphasizes again. “That seems to be his element. As such, we cannot contact him so easily. We met him on pure accident and coincidence.” 

“How do you know? Are you sure? What do you mean?”

The eyes stare at you in calm silence. You imagine that the seer would be raising her hand in the _slow down_ motion. But how can you? 

_What the_ fuck _are they talking about?_

“Again, this is merely according to our hypothesis, but I will attempt to explain what occurred to him in the under,” the seer continues. “To fall under at all is extremely, extremely circumstantial—there has only been a few others who have slipped through in the many, many years we’ve surveyed the area.”

“We think they were all time travelers,” the witch says. “They all fell in through faults during large tremors, and they all managed to escape.”

You blink at the darkness, at the eyes. 

“You mean, faults and tremors like earthquakes?” you ask. You feel somewhat dumb not knowing what they’re talking about; Dave really hadn’t told you much about what happened. He _definitely_ didn’t bother to tell you that he was a freaking _time traveler._

Some leaves fall as the witch speaks.

“Yes! Exactly like earthquakes. There are faults everywhere, but the tremors don’t manipulate the earth physically. They manipulate and displace time instead.”

“We call them temporal tremors,” the seer elaborates. “When a large tremor occurs, some larger faults become very strained and open for a moment. And should someone, likely one with some time-manipulative abilities, step on the fault just at the right moment—”

“They can fall through,” you murmur. 

“Correct.” 

“So this,” you say, gesturing to the dark, small playground, “this doesn’t mean that I’m, you know, _under_ , right?”

“Oh, no! You’re still fully in your own universe. But this place is a little manipulation of my own,” the witch says.

“So it doesn’t…?”

“Exist? Well, it _does_ , but it’s extremely hidden. I messed with it a little bit so we had a place to meet you!”

“Is that why all this feels so…” You gesture your hand emptily. “Off?”

“Oh, I believe that may be our doing,” the seer says. “We usually aren’t able to exist in this universe at all—but, even in our limited forms, we may be…altering things, somewhat.”

“I see.”

“John,” the seer says, and you squirm as the eyes lock on you. “In our observations, we have found you to be peculiarly sensitive to the wind. It almost seems to follow you, like a shadow.”

“Well, this area is pretty windy,” you say.

“I believe you only perceive it as so. But we also believe that this is how we were able to contact you.”

You stare blankly. God, you hate asking the same question over and over, but you do.

“…What do you mean?”

“Well, like Dave seems to be at least sensitive to the element of time, you seem to be more sensitive to the element of breath and wind.” 

You quirk a brow at the eyes. They don’t respond back. 

“So you mean I can, like, manipulate wind and stuff?”

“Mm, no, I don’t think you have that kind of power,” the witch says, “but you definitely seem sensitive to it!” 

“Yes, which leads us to our next question. We are also curious of your companionship with Dave.”

You’re suddenly glad for the dark, though you doubt it helps you in the presence of these two. You feel your cheeks burn slightly at the sudden inquiry. 

“Uh, well, he’s my boyfriend,” you say. “We live together.”

“I knew it,” the witch whispers, words almost hidden under the breeze hitting the branches. 

“And how long have you known Dave?” the seer asks.

“Oh, gosh, uh. Since we were ten, I think?” 

“Interesting.” 

“What’s the point of all this?” you ask. You suddenly feel very impatient—as though they’re withholding something from you. “Why did you really come to find me?”

“We have a hypothesis,” the seer says, “that you and Dave may be in some way connected to two very old friends of ours.”

“One was Knight,” the witch starts, before you can ask any further. “He was the Knight of Time. He had very similar mannerisms to Dave, I think—”

“They look quite similar, as well.” 

“They do! When you first saw him, Seer, were you at all surprised?”

“I was. And yet it was very clear he wasn’t Knight.”

“That’s true…”

“And you, John,” the seer says, eyes blinking out of time, “you remind us very much of our friend Heir. He was—”

“The Heir of Breath!” the witch interrupts. 

“Yes. He had an affinity for manipulating wind and flight. You look very much like him, and yet…”

She pauses, blinking as the trees rustle quietly. 

“It is also very clear that you aren’t Heir, either.” 

You furrow your brows. The witch and the seer both go mum for some time.

“Are you, like, trying to find these guys?” you ask. “Were you hoping that me and Dave were them?”

“Oh, somewhat. For both questions,” the witch says. “You see, Heir and Knight ran off together a long, long time ago. It’s clear that they’re still around somewhere, but…we have no idea where they are.”

“I mean, you guys can kind of see everything, right? It doesn’t seem like it would take you a long time to check the entire world for them.”

“John, I don’t think you quite understand,” the seer says. “All of us—Witch, Heir, Knight, and myself—are _gods_. In our universe, we aren’t confined to just one world, or planet. We have the power to travel anywhere we please. Including, it seems, though very limited, other universes.”

_Gods?_

“Wait, wait, wait,” you stammer. “So you mean, there’s some guy out there who looks like me, who can _fly_ , can go anywhere he wants, and he’s seen as…a _god?_ ”

“Not just seen as one. He is one!” 

“What we fear is that Knight has used his time traveling prowess to elude us. For what reason, we’re not sure. It could be something he’s evading that we don’t know about, or it could simply be a prank.”

“Oh, I love pranks—”

“Heir loved pranks—”

The three of you share silence for a moment. The eyes then squint at you. They must multiply, as you can feel many somethings staring at the back of your head. 

“I have another question for you, John,” the seer says.

“Uh, okay.”

“When you and Dave were young, did you happen to play a game?” 

You can’t help but snort a little. 

“Well, duh, I played tons of games. Do you mean if we played one together?”

“Yes. And if you had any other friends you played the game with.”

“Uh, gosh, well…” 

You try to think. There’s a whole list of games you had played with Dave when you were kids— _Halo_ , bad MMORPGs, good MMORPGs, online _Uno_ for the bad rainy nights. And sure, you had played the games with some other friends of yours and Dave’s—

“Seer, I think you need to be more specific,” the witch chimes. “John, this game—did you ever play a game where you have to build a lot of things? And did you play it with Dave and two other friends?”

“I mean, there was _Sims_.”

“Okay, and any other ones?”

You cross your arms, rocking yourself slowly back and forth on the swing in thought. Suddenly, you remember a game you had tried to play when you were thirteen, with Dave and your other friends, and you look up again at the eyes.

“Well, there was one other game from when I was like, thirteen. It was called _Sburb_ , I think?”

The eyes widen slightly. They look up, as though looking at the witch through the darkness. You continue.

“But, I don’t think it worked—something happened.” You shrug. “The game was kind of a dud for all of us. We had trouble booting it up.” 

You remember—the four of you opening a group memo to complain about the game failing to get past the load screen, even though this was supposedly the “game of the year”. But, it had quickly left all of your minds as other, better games came out over the years. You had nearly forgotten all about it.

The trees rustle stronger than they had in some time. You feel some leaves fall over you.

“Interesting!” the witch says. 

“Yes, but also concerning. Witch…I wonder…”

You watch as the eyes squint and look away in thought. 

“Do you guys know about it?” you ask. 

They go very quiet. For a moment, you wonder if they left, until the witch answers quietly from the corners of the playground.

“Yes…John, we’re gods because of it.” 

“And you’re very, very fortunate that the game failed to load,” the seer says, quick and with a tinge of bitterness. “Please don’t be fooled by our status. The game is incredibly dangerous.” 

_What?_

“Are you saying that the game became, like, real life?”

“Yes,” the seer responds.

“Holy shit,” you murmur.

A game that becomes real life? Who would miss out on playing a game that could turn you into a _god?_ You open your mouth to ask, but the seer continues. You feel as though she knew you would try to question it.

“In any case, that does pose an interesting turn on our hypothesis… Witch, do you suppose…”

But the seer quiets herself, possibly still in thought. 

Suddenly, the eyes, which had grown small in number in the bushes and the trees, start to slowly flicker out. You feel more dead leaves drop on you, and you look up at the dark canopy.

“John, I’m very sorry, but we must go,” the seer says, causing you to look at the solitary eye in hiding in a bush near the spring riders. “We have stayed here for too long.”

“Seer, I’m _exhausted_ ,” the witch moans. 

“I know, Witch. We shall take our leave now. But, John—we will be in touch, I promise.”

“Wait, I have a question—”

The eye flickers out. You’re afraid that you’ve missed them entirely, but the trees rustle soft far above you.

“What is it, John? And hurry, please!”

“Oh, god, okay, um.” You stammer, trying to find a point in the dark to look at. “God, I have so many questions, but—the knight and the heir, why did they leave together? Why did they both leave you behind?”

“Hmm,” the witch hums, a steady stream of leaves falling from her. “I think they left together because they couldn’t stand to be apart. I think it was love—but they never said anything. Why they left us behind, I have no idea. But we’ll find them! I’m sure of it.”

You swallow a little before nodding. 

“Thanks. I hope you find them.”

A strong, heavy wind blows through the small area, and you cover your head with your arms to avoid the small sticks falling from the trees. The swings and spring riders creak loud and ceaseless until finally, everything goes horribly still, and almost sickeningly quiet. When you look up, the darkness is sparse; you squint up into the pinks and purples of dusk.

_I think it was love._

For a long time, you stay sitting on the swing, trying to make sense of the past—twenty minutes? hour? week?—but can only feel your blood pounding in your ears. You’re not sure how to make any sense of it—you’re not sure if you can, or if you really should. 

How can you accept the fact that somewhere out there, you, some other iteration of you, are a god? And what about fate? That the game didn’t work in your universe, and yet, even after it did in some other universe, maybe far away, you and Dave still ended up together in one form or another? Being gods _together?_

It’s all too much to take in. Honestly, you feel exhausted just breathing. 

Slowly, you stand from the swings, feeling the ache in your knees from sitting for too long. As you walk out, you pat one of the spring riders—none of them like the one you had in your front yard as a kid, but you still feel some nostalgia looking at them anyway. 

When you walk out, you take some steps before hearing the faint shuffle of leaves and metal behind you. When you look back, the entrance to the small playground is gone.

You keep walking, hands in your pockets, cheeks and nose burning from the now mild winds. 

By the time you get back home to your apartment, the sun is peeking over the horizon, making the sky orange. You shed your jacket, your jeans, your sneakers all into a heap at the end of the bed. Once you toss your glasses onto the bedside table, you finally crawl back under the covers. 

Dave shifts beside you, inhaling slow and sharp, and you feel his arm drape over your middle. He presses his face in between your shoulder blades and breathes slowly into your shirt. 

You take his hand draped over you up to your lips and kiss it gently. He squeezes your fingers lightly and murmurs into your back.

“Did you get your slurpee?” he asks.

“Huh?” you say. Then, shaking your head, “Oh, no…uh, their machines were out of order.”

“Fucking typical, 7-Eleven.”

“Hah, yeah…” 

Slowly, before he can fall asleep again, you twist yourself around under his arm to face him. He keeps his eyes shut, but you see the slight twitches in his face as he tries to fall back asleep. When you reach a hand up to brush some stray hair from his forehead, he doesn’t react. 

For some time, despite your own exhaustion, you look down at him, watching him fall back into a world of dreams. This was one of those times where you could witness him at full peace, breathing slowly, lying still. 

_Somewhere,_ you think, _somewhere out there, he’s a god. And he probably sleeps just like this, too._

You reach up again to pet his hair gingerly, hardly even touching it in fear of waking him. A breeze rolls through the window, hitting the back of your calves, and you release a slow breath. Though a voice doesn’t hide in the wind this time, you imagine that the witch is telling you to sleep. If you were a voice in the wind, that’s what you would tell yourself, anyway. 

You close your eyes. Though your thoughts still whir under the questions you wish you had asked, and all the things you don’t understand, you feel yourself slowly relax back into a light doze. Before you fall asleep, you lay your hand on top of Dave’s, feeling the warmth of his palm, the slight murmur of his pulse. 

Before you fall asleep, you think, maybe it’s not so far-fetched that somewhere, together, the two of you are gods. 

**Author's Note:**

> phew! so this is in part for johndave week, but also in part because i've been wanting to write a sort of sequel to "let's sit on the couch" for a long time. the mood music this time was [liability (reprise)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R9NlRSn-BpM). 
> 
> thanks for reading!
> 
> hmu @ spacepuck.tumblr.com


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